


showed you all of my hiding spots

by limerental



Series: Yenralt Valentines [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bratty Sub Yennefer, Dom Geralt but he's bad at it, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Laughter During Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Sex Pollen Affected Yennefer, Submission Curse, Tenderness, brief somnophilia, in terms of the nature of the sex not the sex itself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: After Yennefer accidentally mistranslates a fertility rite, she has to submit to the mortifying ordeal of... submitting. To Geralt, who is not at all comfortable with a dominant role. They make it work somehow.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Yenralt Valentines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136729
Comments: 15
Kudos: 94
Collections: A Very Yenralt Valentine





	showed you all of my hiding spots

**Author's Note:**

> written for A Very Yenralt Valentine event but I followed the prompts only incredibly loosely or not at all

In the infant days of their strange relationship, it had taken months of Yennefer’s coaxing and prodding in bed to encourage Geralt to make full use of that mutated strength of his. He defaulted to restraining himself, not hesitant to engage in intimacy but still careful, holding her like something he would break or tarnish. Even when he finally caved to her demands for occasional rough treatment, he moped miserably over bruises and nailmarks on Yen's skin, fretting even for her reassurance that she had gotten worse knocking her own shins against furniture in the night.

In time, she had adjusted her expectations.

He did not cower or kneel meekly at her feet as others had in the past, as cocky and witty in bed as he was otherwise, but where she led, he followed, where she pushed him, he stayed. He seemed to take comfort in obedience, giving to her whims, distrusting of her intent but curious all the same.

She had once thought it was something his Path had taught him about the intimacy he could accept, a way of diminishing himself as a threat. Allow his partner to lead and nudge him where they liked and he was less likely to find himself the target of an angry mob. But Yennefer later came to think he simply preferred it. To have the decisions made for him, the means of his pleasure pre-determined. So much of his life involved difficult choices, swift decisions and compromises, so for Geralt, to allow those anxieties to be taken from him with a partner he trusted was a comfort. 

Yennefer could not relate to it, her own sexual preferences shaped in the exact opposite direction, but she understood it. The peace he found in surrender.

So the Witcher was not the ideal candidate for what was required here.

She had -- in the politest of terms-- royally fucked up.

It was well past midnight, but Yennefer had been close to a breakthrough on a very promising project exploring the limits of her infertility. So she had pushed her mind past the point of exhaustion, intoned the incantation, and realized a moment too late her dreadful error in translation.

A fever had taken her, blooming higher as she stumbled from her study to the bedchamber where the WItcher slept. The pain began as she reached the vestibule of the room and paused there a moment to breathe, an ache settling up in her lower belly and travelling in pulses down her thighs.

"Geralt, wake up," she demanded, and he roused himself slowly, far more slowly than he would when not staying with Yennefer. He was safe here. He blinked owlishly in the darkness, allowing himself to feel the groggy warmth of being woken in the middle of the night by a lover. Yennefer regretted how quickly the pleasant, at ease expression slipped from his face when he saw the serious look on hers.

“Yen? What’s wrong?”

“I need…” A fresh ache rose in her belly, accompanied by sharp arousal that did not feel quite like her own. She saw the quick way that Geralt assessed her, the contrast in her scent and facial expression. This was not her ordinary method of waking him in the night for sex. Usually she did not make such a fanfare about it, slipping in and under the covers, and nudging him until he rolled to her. Once, memorably, he had slept through nearly the entire act, her touches slow and deliberate, waking bleary-eyed on the edge of climax and immediately breathing a broken sigh of her name. This time was nothing like that. “... I need assistance.”

“Something happened?”

"I was testing an ancient fertility rite. Though I mistranslated the language. It's not-- well, in this case the word for child-bearing and submission are unfortunately similar and this rite is intended for-- make your assumptions there, I suppose."

"That's pretty fucked up, Yen."

"Yes, yes, you're an enlightened man critical of oppressive, sexist power structures, very good, but that's not really the concern here,” she huffed, growing impatient with chatter not just for the burn that had begun seeping through her whole body.

“What do you need?” he asked with a brush of his knuckles up her flank. Normally, it would be almost sweet. His lowered voice, his quiet adoration, the knowledge that she could ask anything of him and, though he would grumble and complain, he would give to her willingly. Unfortunately, that would not be enough here.

“The effects will be dispelled when I--” Yennefer did not like it. She did not like it one bit. But she also knew the symptoms would only worsen until she could do nothing but what the spell required anyway. Her heart ached for the girls it had been cast on long ago. “--when I submit.”

“Submit?” Geralt tipped his head in confusion, as though he’d somehow forgotten his own sexual proclivities and lost all his shrewdness in the night.

“Yes, yes, I’m certain you’re familiar with the concept. You give the orders. I surrender. It’s not all that complicated.”

“Submit,” Geralt repeated, looking more wary by the second.

“Well we’re not going to break it with you looking at me like that, are we?” said Yennefer. “Sit up. Don’t slouch and--” She stopped short as Geralt immediately straightened to sit at the edge of the bed, feet flat against the floor. He realized her error a beat after she did, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh come on, tell me to do something. It’s not hard.”

“Does you telling me to tell you to do something even count?” he asked, a cheeky smile sneaking onto his face.

“I don’t know, Geralt! But this frankly isn’t all that comfortable, so could we get on with this?”

The smile slipped from his face.

“It hurts?”

“Yes, and it’s embarrassing,” said Yennefer. “Now please, would you…” She cut herself off before she could give another order, the pain having intensified the last time she did so. Geralt offered a sharp little nod and returned to his previous uneasy look.

“Um,” he said, fishing in that big brain of his for the appropriate words. Any other time she would delight in his floundering, knowing the reward when he did find what strangely tender or insightful thing he meant to say would be worth it. Now, she was mostly just hoping he did not panic and conjure up something completely ridiculous for her to do. “Get on your knees. At my feet.”

Yennefer obeyed, folding herself easily to the stone floor. She rested her hands in her lap and looked up at him. A long silence stretched where they did nothing but stare at one another. This position was not unfamiliar, though Yennefer usually preferred a plush rug beneath her and Geralt steadily losing his composure as she teased between his legs. 

The silence stretched longer, during which the ache that had abated as she kneeled before him began to flare again.

“Geralt,” said Yennefer, smiling tightly, “don’t you have something to request of me?”

“Right, fuck um--” He spread his thighs, frumpy braies doing him no favors, and reached to touch her hair. “Suck my cock.”

Yennefer arched a thin brow but moved to do as he had requested. He shivered as her fingernails tucked under his waistband to extract him, still flaccid but plumping quickly under the touch of her hand, more quickly still when her lips curled around the head. The rumors of Witcher endowment were no exaggeration, but Geralt only revealed his true girth when fully erect.

For all it appeared on its face to be an act of meek servitude, Yennefer always enjoyed this act. To hold a man’s most delicate parts between her teeth and choose not to bite, their pleasure and comfort entirely within her control, could never lead her to feel anything but powerful.

Which, of course, was something of a problem in this case.

Geralt did not gag her or attempt to fit himself down her throat, did not pull her hair, did not try to set the pace. He looked down at her as her mouth opened around him, his own lips parted and eyes glazed, fingers pressed against the swell of himself in her cheek.

She wanted nothing more than to see if she could deepen that slack-jawed expression, giving him something he could really shudder in pleasure over.

But that wasn’t what was required of her here. It had to be him who asked for it before she could give.

Yennefer tapped him on the thigh, hoping to remind him of the intent here, even as she obeyed his order and made a fine show of sucking his cock in earnest. Which did well to soothe the ache in her stomach for a time, until it became clear the Geralt wasn’t about to do anything but sit back and groan and let her bring him to completion.

She tapped him more insistently and pulled back to kiss down the length of his erection, her breath stirring the fine hairs of his belly.

“Anything else?” she asked.

He blinked down at her and grimaced as though he were the one in pain as he considered his options. 

Yennefer restrained herself from offering suggestions, unclear what the limits of the spell really were. Maybe Geralt was right and being ordered to give orders simply would never fulfill the requirements. Perhaps she would have to seek someone out who would delight in dominating and controlling her, but the thought churned sour in her stomach.

Most worryingly, she knew that Geralt grew far less clever the closer he was to orgasm. She knew before he opened his mouth that his next request would be utterly humiliating for the both of them.

“Come here,” said Geralt, voice lowered to a pitch that would have driven any maiden to swooning. If Yennefer did not know better, he certainly would look the part of a domineering man like any other wishing to command and overpower her, scarred and densely-muscled, frowning down at her. As it was, she saw his little tells of nervousness, his hesitance, his anxiety. He patted both thighs with his palms. “In my lap. On your belly. Er…” He coughed, clearing his throat. “You’ve been naughty.”

Yennefer barely withheld her laughter. Her amusement must have shown on her face, because Geralt did not hold back his own huff of laughter and sheepish grin.

“Come on then,” he said more firmly. “I don’t have all night.”

“Yes, sir,” said Yennefer, which inspired another huff from Geralt. This situation would have been very funny indeed if she did not want to get this over with sometime this century.

As she clambered up to lie across his lap, his palm came to rest against the round of her bottom. His thighs were horribly bony. He rucked her loose dress up her lower back and did not seem surprised to find she wore nothing underneath.

Except for impromptu encouraging smacks during the heat of the moment, they had never engaged in proper spanking, which was the only intention she could assume he had in putting her over his knee. It reminded Yennefer too much of the punishments threatened (but rarely inflicted) by her prim instructors when she was a schoolgirl. For all that she enjoyed ordering Geralt around, she did not take pride in inflicting humiliation.

The first strike of his hand against her uncovered backside was embarrassingly weak, barely making a sound in the quiet bedchamber.

“Is that really all you can manage?” She pressed back against his hand, wiggling.

“Brat,” said Geralt stiffly, and Yennefer laughed.

The next strike came with much more force and a loud clap that startled a similar yelp from the both of them.

His thumb soothed over the burn of her skin, apologetic. There was a tremble in the touch, a stiffness in the muscles of his legs, which Yennefer could parse the source of even without dipping into his thoughts. 

He did not want to hurt or demean or cage her, did not want to be the brute the world assumed him to be. 

She did not want to make him feel like one.

“This isn’t working,” huffed Yennefer and slipped from his lap to roll onto her belly in the center of the plush mattress. She lay with legs spread and spine arched in clear invitation, the most vulnerable position that she could muster. From here, she knew the bend of her spine was most visible, the slope of one shoulder lower than the other. “Take me, Witcher,” she said, heedless of it counting as an order. 

He lumbered across the bed to slot himself behind her, fingertips cool against her hips.

Rather than give to wordlessly rutting against her, he teased, nudging against her but not sinking deep.

“You gonna beg for it?” he drawled with an amused chuckle, and that certainly should not have inspired the swell of arousal that rose in her, a distinct contrast to the burning ache of the spell. 

Yennefer of Vengerberg did not _beg_ and Geralt knew it. 

It was not the words that aroused her but the easy way he said them, the little smile Yennefer was sure she would see if she turned back to look. Geralt surely knew how much she disliked this position, all her flaws and weaknesses plainly visible, and offered to lighten both of their discomfort with a show of levity. 

She felt a strong spark of fondness for this man and his gentle hands and tendency to cope with uncomfortable situations via dry wit and that she knew his natural inclination was to go to ground at the first sign of trouble and yet who, for her, was learning to meet the world head on, to take risks, to voice his desires.

Of course she wouldn’t _beg_ , the very idea was preposterous.

But.

She did want him inside of her with an increasing desperation, wished to feel the whole girth of him pressed deep as he cradled her hips and kissed between her crooked shoulderblades, wanted to be desired and seen in ways only he had ever managed to desire and see her.

But she could not command it, could not demand it of him, could only lie on her belly, head tucked between her folded arms, and beg for it.

“Please,” she breathed and still he taunted her, his fingers slipping between her slick folds and forward but offering only light touches. 

“Please what?”

Yennefer groaned. She should have expected someday to find his cheekiness turned against her.

“Geralt of Rivia, if you don’t--” She sucked in a breath as his rough fingers teased her, censoring herself carefully to avoid a direct command. “Please just get this over with and fuck me.” The pitch of her desire was betrayed by the break of her voice, and her face burned against her arms. 

Geralt leaned against her, chest flush to the length of her spine and swept aside her hair to kiss her at the back of her neck.

“Love you, Yen,” he said against her skin, irritatingly sincere, and only then finally pressed himself inside her. 

No order or insult or humiliating position could ever cleave more deeply into her most vulnerable places than such a sentiment spoken so plainly.

His hips fell into a rolling cadence, restraining himself in tempo but not in force, and Yennefer’s breath gusted from her with each thrust. Though he did not allow his weight to settle on top of her, his body covered hers completely, his elbows rested alongside hers. It should have felt claustrophobic, his great strength settled around her, flexing in the sinew of his abdomen. 

She felt the breath of his body hair against the skin of her hollowed back, felt the warmth of his belly and chest without quite touching. His lips brushed the knobs of her vertebrae one after another, stubble catching on her smooth skin. He shuffled their hands together to entangle their fingers, letting her grip tightly as he sped his pace.

It was vulnerable, yes. She was surrounded and engulfed by him. She could not escape the soft mumbles of her name against her back or the dry kisses along her spine. 

And yet, she trusted that at a single word from her, he would retreat to the very farthest corner of the room. He would cower before her. He would beg her forgiveness. He would change himself for her.

Yennefer did not want him to.

Sighing, she pressed back against him and felt the very moment that the spell released her from its binding, sinking into the unfamiliar warmth of surrender.


End file.
